


Cave Walls

by thegirlwiththemouseyhair



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece, Historical References, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Underage, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:20:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21567541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwiththemouseyhair/pseuds/thegirlwiththemouseyhair
Summary: Not quite the Italian Renaissance, rival artists AU from your letter, as I don’t know enough about the period. A classical history AU, however, is a different story. It should be pretty obvious who's who in this fic, and also that Arthur’s father needs to be full of crap in any AU, period, genre, etc. Also, it’s extremely weird writing about norms/mixed messages about sexuality in a profoundly different era, yet trying to make established, relatively modern characters remain at all like themselves… (Finally, Arthur/Artemios is about fifteen in this, in keeping with the customs of the period - hence the warning for underage.)
Relationships: Arthur Stuart/Curt Wild
Comments: 7
Kudos: 4
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Cave Walls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spock/gifts).

> Not quite the Italian Renaissance, rival artists AU from your letter, as I don’t know enough about the period. A classical history AU, however, is a different story. It should be pretty obvious who's who in this fic, and also that Arthur’s father needs to be full of crap in any AU, period, genre, etc. Also, it’s extremely weird writing about norms/mixed messages about sexuality in a profoundly different era, yet trying to make established, relatively modern characters remain at all like themselves… (Finally, Arthur/Artemios is about fifteen in this, in keeping with the customs of the period - hence the warning for underage.)

Artemios couldn’t sleep. The nightmares that plagued him off and on since childhood had returned to wrench him from his rest. Cool sweat beaded on his brow despite the dry mass of the air above him. Harsh, discordant music pounded in his ears, though the dreams were melting away. As they did, he grasped broken images of strange buildings, massive places taller than any temple or palace he'd seen. He had stood on a rooftop with that impossible music beating in his blood. The dreams had left him troubled, but sort of empty, too. It seemed that a part of him was dissolving with them. He rose, put on his tunic. As he did, he drank in the familiar sights of his father’s house. They did little to calm him. So he threw on his cloak, then went out and walked past the edge of his father’s land, to where the orchard of straggly olive trees gave way to cliff and cave. He had often hidden there as a child, listening to the ocean below and smelling the salt breeze wafting toward him. He used to pretend no one could find him there when he was troubled or lonely. No one was likely to look, but his imaginings were more pleasant than reality, and those caves had always been special to him.

That was where he saw the ships. The hairs at the back of his neck lifted, and his stomach sank. There were rumours of war between other cities, other islands, but surely his backwater home was safe? For a moment he stood frozen in place. Of course he hadn’t brought a weapon. Even if he had, he was as useless armed as unarmed. His face burned as he recalled his father’s sneers and his brother’s taunts. He was useless at most things - awkward on coltish legs in the gymnasium. Only half-competent with a lyre. A decent runner, but never a victor in races. At least he was good-looking. Some men and, more rarely, girls noticed him in the agora. He was flattered, but such feelings were selfish. What had he to offer anyone? More frightening, and more immediate: how would he fare, if war came to his shores?

But he pushed on, spying on the fleet below despite jangling nerves: a mouse masquerading as a lion. He studied every patched sail, every dented plank of once-shining fir. Those were war ships, all right, but badly battered. Returning from some conflict, not seeking new ones. _ Hopefully _ not seeking new ones. But raids were always a threat - not that there was much to steal around here. 

Artemios shrank back into the night with his inventory and his questions etched into his mind. He hovered close to the caves, sheltering in the shadows. They couldn't spot him from the beach below. It was almost impossible, but there was no sense dying a shameful death if he could help it. A little caution was warranted. Real worries had driven away the last vestiges of his nightmares. He hurried towards his home, and was perhaps a third of the way there when a sound stopped him in his tracks. There was music playing in the darkness of a cave. It was unfamiliar and sad, but expertly played on the lyre. His pulse quickened. Caution deserted him. He thought of gods and satyrs, imagined stepping from the world of mortals into that of the immortals. More likely the musician was one of those foreign sailors who’d trudged up alone after a quarrel, like Achilles in his tent. But Artemios could not fear or flee anyone who played so well. Instead he lingered. Soon he found himself drawing closer, as if some god or spirit drove him. Dreamlike detachment settled over him. The risk he was taking felt abstract and distant, like a question of mathematics or grammar in school. Moving silently over soft earth, he half-entered the cave from which the song had come. A torch glowed by the back wall.

In its light he recognized a man’s face, and clamped a hand to his mouth in shock. 

All the confusion of his dreams flooded back to him. He knew that man’s face - had often seen the fair hair falling over the eyes. Knew those eyes were blue, and had seen them lined with kohl, like the Egyptians wore. He jerked backwards, but it was too late. The music fell silent.

“Who’s there?” 

The voice was accented, weary, and gravel-rough. But there was no malice in it - not that Artemios could hear. 

“Just passing by,” he said. “I’m unarmed.”

“Let me see you.”

Artemios obeyed. He stepped back into the cave, letting the torch light hit him full in the face. He blinked. 

Something else hit him, too, slamming into him with the force of a battering ram. Eros’s arrow. His cheeks went hot, his mouth dry. For a moment the two men stared at each other across the low, close space. Artemios wanted to look down, but could not. Something rather like a smile split the older man’s face. His gaze shifted downward, surveying Artemios’ body with approval. Artemios’s heart leapt. Yet his stomach clenched with want stronger than any he had ever known.

“What’s your name?” the stranger asked. “You can come closer; I won’t hurt you.”

Artemios approached him. As he did, he remembered his father’s dark words about those men who loved youths. The fad was snobbish, pretentious, new-fangled. It turned men into vulgar spectacles and the boys they loved into whores. Then again, Father said, if it were done with subtlety and decorum - if the lover were a man of rank, and his beloved could be advantaged without seeming too obvious - if both men fathered children to serve the city - it might be tolerable… 

This stranger, who introduced himself as Kariton, had little to offer Artemios. Whatever wealth or influence he had lay across the sea. But he was a decade older, and so handsome, though his was hardly the sculptural beauty of a god. Instead he was scarred and careworn. A white bandage snaked around one arm. He admitted that his fleet had been beaten not far from here, though he would not say more. 

They exchanged few words before falling into something wordless, intimate, and infinitely better. Beyond the bright joy of the man’s touch and mouth, Artemios found keen pleasure in rebelling against what he’d been taught. A youth shouldn’t be too eager or yield too easily. _Ha_: within minutes he was in Kariton’s arms, as if they’d always known and loved each other. A boy should not enjoy being penetrated, like a woman. Well, Artemios found more enjoyment in an hour with Kariton than at any other time in his short life. Gorgeous sensations carried him away from his narrow upbringing:his opening slicked with olive oil. A spasm of hot pain as he was breeched. Kariton's soothing murmur vibrating in his ear. _I'll stop if you want. Just say the word... _A hiss of in-drawn breath - Artemios's own. The sound was raw with need, not with pain. He squeezed the older man's hand and rocked his hips backward. An echo of that aching fullness returned to him. He welcomed it.

For an hour he held nothing back. His nerves sang like lyre strings as Kariton moved inside him. Things were natural and easy between them, after that first look, first shiver of lust, the first tingling touch of their hands. Kariton only hesitated once, withdrawing and suppressing a groan: he’d leaned too much on his wounded arm. He shifted position and gritted his teeth. In a moment he was thrusting again, as if nothing had happened. But Artemios remembered.

When they lay together after sex, Artemios surveyed his lover's clumsy bandage. Red had seeped through the cloth. The flesh around it looked angry, too. Had it pained Kariton to lean over him, or even to hold his instrument earlier? 

“I - suppose there’s a doctor with you?” Artemios asked. “In your camp?”

Kariton grimaced and flung his discarded tunic over his arm.

“Not anymore.”

His tone was a warning. Artemios hesitated, torn between heeding it and fearing for the older man’s safety. He put a hand to his mouth, chewed a ragged fingernail, and tried to remember what their kindly, backwater doctor had done for him when he injured his leg in a riding accident. 

“You could try willow bark, or chamomile - or both.” He picked his words with care, hoping he sounded neutral. “Steeped in water.” Then the mask slipped. “I can get you some - ”

Kariton gave a harsh laugh.

“Didn’t realize _ you _ were a doctor,” he said. But he put a hand over Artemios’s. “I can meet you here tomorrow. At sunset?” His face tightened. Faint lines stood out on his forehead. “I’ve been hiking up here for some peace when my work’s done…”

He trailed off. Artemios promised, and curled closer to him, ignoring the cool soil that clung to his body. 

“You never said what you were doing here,” added Kariton. He was teasing now, bright-eyed: the storm clouds had gone. “Spying? I swear, we won’t harm you or yours. We just need to resupply and...”

Artemios’s face flushed. “I - I wanted some air. I couldn’t sleep.” He drew his hand back. It must be terribly late. Would his family notice his absence, in the middle of the night?

“I should go,” he added, sitting up and groping for his clothes.

Kariton caught his wrist again, playfully.

“One more question. You always wander so far, so late? Or did the gods send you to me?”

“I had strange dreams,” Artemios admitted. “They woke me. After that I lost track of where I walked.”

A wry, wonderful smile answered him.

“What did you dream about?”

Artemios’s throat tightened.

“Nonsense - and you.”

The words spilled from him before he could think. The flush crept from his cheeks down to his neck.

But Kariton looked impressed.

“Didn’t realize you were a seer, too. You should lead with that.” Then the grin faded. “What happened, in your dream? What happened to me?” 

“Nothing,” Artemios said. The flush must be spreading to his chest now. “It was nonsense; I told you.” He pulled his hand free of the other man’s grip. “I’ll meet you here tomorrow, all right?”

#

Artemios hardly heard his father’s grumbling or his brother’s jeers. He was too busy recalling the places on his body where Kariton had touched him, leaving short-lived marks, or stealing medicines from the household stores and herbs from the garden. At school, and when his father sent him on errands to the market, he listened to the tales of a fleet, or what was left of one, regrouping on their shore. He did not share his own news. That was a secret, to guard like treasure. Anyway, he had no one to share it with.

At sundown, Artemios returned to the cliffs and the caves. He waited for some time. The air that had shimmered with heat and the pot of boiled water he’d brought with him cooled. He worried at his fingernails. Several times he jerked to his feet and ventured out to inspect the beach below. The camp and the ships were still there. He had not dreamed them, at least. What of Kariton? Had he conjured up a phantom lover? Perhaps some god-sent madness had come over him, sending dreams and delusions… An hour crawled by. The night grew darker, and the cicadas began to sing.

But he had nothing to fear. Eventually Kariton ascended the slope. He was winded when he met Artemios, stained with dust and sweat. Artemios pounced on him, taking his hand and showing him the medicines. The older man laughed.

“You’re good at that,” he remarked, when Artemios was finishing tying a fresh bandage around his arm. Artemios shrugged. He wasn’t good at anything. But he thanked Kariton, who cupped his chin and kissed him. When he broke the kiss, he looked down, and drew something green and shining from his bag. Artemios gaped at him.

“Where’d you get that?”

Kariton held out an apple - another treasure, eaten only on special occasions like feast days or weddings. Artemios knew no one who grew them around here.

“I have my ways.” Kariton’s eyes sparkled. 

They spent three weeks like that, meeting up when they could, sharing treasures and each other’s bodies. Kariton’s arm began to heal. The old nightmares no longer plagued Artemios. There was no more emptiness when he woke, no more wandering alone and aimless around the cliffs. Sex became easier, more comfortable for both of them. They seemed to hover in a world of their own, far above the rules and rituals Artemios had been taught. What did it matter that he'd gone to bed with a stranger for no reason other than desire? They had no time for courtship or social niceties. And wasn't Desire himself a god, and the best among them? It was enough. Artemios had found joy, warmth, freedom in his dull and narrow life.

Sometimes they simply sat together, or went swimming in sheltered places off the beach.

“My men wouldn’t hurt you even if they saw you,” Kariton promised him once. “We don’t have to hide.”

Artemios shrugged the comment away. How could he explain that it was better when it was just the two of them? He didn’t want to think about Kariton leaving, returning to some other shore with the disgrace of loss hanging over him. Artemios couldn’t help hearing the news at school and in town, even when it turned black and disturbing. It was far better to ignore the future as long as they could.

That was how he survived knowing Kariton must leave him soon.

For several nights after that swim, he kept Kariton to himself, up by the caves. Kariton taught him scales and songs on the lyre. He had a habit, also, of surprising Artemios with gifts of fruit or wine. The wine was stronger than Artemios was used to. Once or twice, when he was giddy with it, he forgot himself and plied his lover for stories. Those were the one treasure Kariton didn’t like to share. Once, Artemios asked him about the love of men - if there had ever been someone for whom he would have laid down his life, or liberated a city, or shown the sort of heroism people celebrated. Kariton’s face darkened at the question.

“It’s not like that,” he snapped. His features were tight and drawn, a sharp contrast with the drunken cheer he’d worn a moment ago. Artemios never asked such a question again.

But they had other things to talk about, when Kariton wanted to talk. He didn’t always, and he grew more silent as the weeks wore on. Sex became almost mechanical. Those moments left Artemios cold inside, though he did not question his lover. Nor did he dream of missing one of their trysts - not even when his father cornered him about the nights spent wandering, the feigned illnesses, and the missed dinners.

“Why’ve you been skulking about as if you had somewhere to go?” His father’s mouth was set in a grim line. “Forget there’s work to be done, after your school? Not that you’ve made anything of yourself there, either.”

A rope that had long been fraying snapped in Artemios. The force of the tear surprised him. He ground his jaw shut. He did his work around the estate - at least as well as his brother. He ran errands, visited their few tenants, and supervised the slaves, when he was called to. He was not, admittedly, outstanding at any of those fields in which boys competed for honour. But his father was no better. He was a hypocrite, a weak man who had run the estate into the ground and bullied his son to compensate…

Impious anger burned in Artemios. He stared at the clay floor beneath him and bore his father’s acid without flinching. In his mind he repeated his insight about his father’s weakness. The words brought him comfort as he turned them over and over, like the chorus of a song. At last his father ordered him to go to bed. He bristled at being treated like a child. But he needed to get away, didn’t he? So a part of him was grateful, too. 

He tramped into his room, shut the door, and stared at the moon through the tiny window above him. When at last he heard his father snoring one room over and knew he was asleep, Artemios crept through the hall and out of the house. It was much later than usual, but he was a decent runner. He could make up for some of the precious time they had lost.

Kariton was waiting for him. He slurred a greeting from the bank of the stream Artemios had pointed out. His skin of strong wine was empty, and he leaned unsteadily over the water. The lyre and the dagger he usually carried lay discarded in the mud. Evidently, he had turned to Dionysos’s gifts to stave off worry or trouble. Artemios hadn’t dared ask what those troubles were, though he had an idea, born of gossip at school and in the agora. 

He ran to Kariton, conscious of how unsure was his footing, and how steep the bank. Jagged rocks glistened in the dark water.

“I’m all right,” Kariton said. Artemios embraced him. “I’m - I’m just thirsty…”

Artemios humoured him, refilled the wine skin with cold water. Yet his imagination was running wild, throwing up nightmare scenarios like sparks from a fire. What did Kariton fear? Was he facing mutiny from his men, or punishment at home? Everyone at school spoke of that routed fleet, its broken men striving to rebuild, the handsome commander who had lost so much through his rashness. Kariton was a sort of fallen, or beaten, hero. Artemios should despise him for that. He couldn’t. Instead he helped him down from the bank. He even managed a smile, though anxiety was gnawing at his belly as fiercely as hunger. 

“Did you wait long?” he asked, more calmly than he'd expected. “My father kept me.”

He would not burden Kariton with tonight’s confrontation. Artemios had often wondered how he wasn’t abandoned at birth - his father must have been more prosperous then, or perhaps his mother had wanted him: she seemed fond of him while she lived. But those were not the sort of thoughts anyone wanted to advertise. Besides, he did not mind sitting with his lover in silence, broken only by the rush of water. Neither thought of initiating sex. Kariton rested one hand on Artemios’s knee, ignoring his comment. That was as well. Perhaps he hadn’t even heard it. But Artemios wished the tension in his face would ease.

“You know the ships have been repaired,” he muttered, without looking up. “My ships. What’s left of them. You knew I’d be leaving, didn’t you?”

The blood in Artemios’s veins ran cold. That was another fear that had gnawed at him these last weeks. Kariton’s question made it real, invoked it like some underworld god. Yet it could have been worse. Kariton could have left without a word - left Artemios to curse him from the cliffs, while still praying for his safety. He’d imagined and dreaded that moment, sometimes, when he was alone. Strange, how his old nightmares of too-loud music and queer buildings once distressed him. He’d grown too much, of late, to brood over nonsense...

“You heard me?” Kariton demanded. 

Artemios winced at his raised voice. Kariton must have sensed it, because he relented, and touched Artemios’s knee.

“I heard,” Artemios said. He kept his voice low, so that it would not break. “I knew that.”

Silence fell once more. This time, it was both painful and pregnant. The white waves lapped the beach below their hideout. Artemios watched the scene sullenly. Soon those tides would take his lover from him, as if he’d never come. He put a hand on Kariton’s, twining their fingers together, though his throat was too tight to speak.

Kariton broke the silence for him.

“Unless you come with me,” he said, brightening. “My men wouldn’t harm you - not _ you_, anyway. Come home with me, like Ariadne with Theseus...” 

Artemios stirred, loosened his grip on the older man’s hand and stared open-mouthed at his face. The idea was absurd. He wasn’t a girl, and anyway, the story was a terrible one to mention: Theseus abandoned Ariadne at the first chance he got. What would Artemios be doing, running away to some new city after a slurred and drunken offer? His life was here. His school, his inheritance. His father, whose word should be law to him. He wrinkled his nose at the thought. But he belonged here, where he had the rights and duties of a citizen, didn’t he? He’d be hardly better off than a slave somewhere else.

And yet, he could imagine sharing Kariton’s bed in his home, or in some other place they found for themselves, two exiles against the world. Learning music from him during the voyage. Sparring with him. Artemios was no fighter, but to impress his lover, he would learn - would try anything at all. Was it stupid of him to indulge such fantasies? Or was it right; after all, hadn't he dreamed of this man - dreamed that they were together in some other world?

He took Kariton’s hand once more and hesitated before replying.

**Author's Note:**

> A few terms, for anyone who's unsure or rusty:  
Eros… The Greek god of love and desire, son of Aphrodite. Sometimes treated as a distinctive mythological character with adventures of his own, and sometimes more like a personification of love and desire.  
Dionysos… God of wine and madness; often Latinized to Dionysus.  
Ariadne and Theseus… Ariadne, in Greek myth, helps the hero Theseus defeat the Minotaur and runs away with Theseus, hoping to marry him.


End file.
